Always the Morning
by Dala1
Summary: A thunderstorm, snuggling, and talk of childhood pets (R/D).


Title: Always the Morning  
Author: Dala  
Rating: PG-13 for a couple of naughty words  
Pairing: Ron Weasley/Draco Malfoy  
Archive: Ask me if you'd like it  
Series: Sort of in the same universe of "Gluttony" and Heresy" (I *so* did not mean to start a series . . .) It's got the same style and general length, in any case. Draco-narrated ficlet to follow.  
Feedback: I love you, you love me, I'll stop singing this song if you leave me reviews!  
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of this fanfic belong to J.K. Rowling and Co, I'm making no profits from this, etc.  
  
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Damn. Damn. Damn. Why isn't anyone else awake? How can they possibly sleep through this noise?  
  
Well, I suppose they're used to it. Even this thunder can't drown out Seamus's snores.  
  
Don't know why I'm so jumpy tonight. I don't even mind storms -- in fact, I rather like them. Everything gets all green and cool, and the rain smells so clean, and the crash of thunder gives me a little thrill.  
  
There goes another lightning bolt -- I can hear the crack this time. It's pretty close. I should ask Hermione if Hogwarts is impervious to natural disasters . . .   
  
The sky rumbles sulkily for a few moments, just quiet enough so that I can hear the door swing open.   
  
The little hairs on my arms stand up. Therefore, I know who our midnight visitor is.  
  
He closes the door and stands there. I wonder why he's so still until I realize that he doesn't know where my bed is. Just as I'm about to hiss something to get his attention, lightning flashes again and he has enough time to scan the room and find my bed, its curtains open. I grew up in a somewhat drafty house and I need the airflow.  
  
He pads quickly to me and darts under the covers without a word. I sit up to pull the curtains shut -- wouldn't do to have my roommates wake up *now* -- and when I settle back into bed, he presses close. His arms are clutching my waist so hard that his wristbones dig into my ribs. He buries his face in my shoulder; I can feel his long eyelashes against my skin. His legs are drawn up until one is draped over my stomach. Thunder booms again and he gives a little start, pressing his cheek against my collarbone. God, he's shaking so badly. I never knew he was afraid of thunderstorms. I can feel his heart beating rapidly, almost in time with the drumming of the rain outside the window. Once a cat that skulked around the Burrow attacked Dad's owl; we found him just before he died. His heartbeat was like this, steady and panicked before it suddenly quit. I remember putting my fingers on his tiny feathered breast and feeling his heart stop.  
  
I think Draco's heart is too strong to stop just because he's frightened, but all the same, I hold him close and feel my own pulse speed up a little.  
  
For every roll of thunder -- his eyes are closed too tightly to be aware of the lightning -- he gives a little shake of his head. I stroke his hair, his back, and we both wait for the storm to pass in silence.  
  
Eventually the cacophony begins to move away from the area and his trembling starts to lessen in its violence. He has brought a hand up to his face and is biting his knuckles. I gently pry his fist away from his mouth. His rigid muscles relax slightly, and he lets the leg he threw over me earlier drift down and lie flat.  
  
Poor baby.  
  
We've never been this close for this long without having fucked first. But I don't think he's quite up to it tonight.  
  
When his breathing has settled into a semi-normal rhythm, I adjust my arms more comfortably around him.  
  
"Draco--"  
  
"Shut up." His voice is hoarse and fierce. I fall silent and try to rub the stiffness out of his neck and upper back with only one hand.  
  
After a few moments, he speaks again. "I suppose you're wondering about the -- the phobia." He sounds cross. I know he thinks weakness manifests itself in fear. Yet he has never laughed at me for my thing about spiders, and now I understand why.  
  
"When I was very small," he continues, "lightning struck a tree on our land. It fell and killed my dog."  
  
"You had a dog?"  
  
I try to picture a miniature, scowling Draco being trailed by a dog -- no doubt something expensive and inbred, like a poodle. A black poodle.  
  
"Yes, I had a dog," he snaps. "My father called it a dirty Muggle pet and threatened to drown it, but I threw such a tantrum than for just that once, he let it slide."  
  
I know it couldn't really have been a poodle, but I can't get the image out of my head, so I ask, "What sort of dog?"  
  
"Some mutt that wandered into the manor one day," he says. "I guess it had some hunting blood in it, because it would try to point at squirrels, but it was skinny and weak and it usually fell over." I laugh and he pokes my ribs, annoyed. "Shut up! I loved that dog. I called it Crow because it had a horrible croaking bark that sounded like a crow's call." His fingers, never idle, are now stroking the skin just above my hips.   
  
It's easier to imagine him as a little boy, a happy one, with a dog to scamper beside him, to lick his hands clean of salt and wag its tail when he said its name. Must have been the only affection he got.  
  
"*Anyway*," he says, as though the digression is my fault, "Crow gets killed and I'm inconsolable. My father becomes angry and says that I was a bad boy to feed such a mongrel creature, and that next time the lightning will strike one of the trees near the manor and fall on *me*. My room was at the back of the house, y'see, on the top floor, and there were these huge old trees right behind it. I begged him to cut them down, but he'd just laugh and glance up at the sky, asking me if I thought it looked like rain."  
  
I shiver. "Bastard," I whisper against his baby-soft hair.  
  
He shrugs. "Yeah."  
  
"So ever since then, you've been afraid of storms."  
  
"More or less." A pause, then a half-hearted threat: "You tell anyone about this, Weasel, and I'll kill you."  
  
I chuckle. "Kill me dead, you drowned rat?"  
  
"*Deader* than dead, smartass."   
  
Banter is comfortable. Banter is secure. Banter is what we do instead of snuggling in the common room and walking through the halls with our hands in each other's back pockets.  
  
I'm almost asleep, having grown used to the weight of his head on my chest, when he says in a very small voice, "Ron?"  
  
"Hmm?" Oh, leave me alone, Draco, I'm in a lovely twilight place where we are floating on clouds and eating strawberries.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
I sigh sleepily. "For what?"  
  
"Putting up with me."  
  
"Well, you *are* a lot to put up with. But I do my best."  
  
"Yes, you do." I can feel his smile, even though I can't see it in the darkness. It is the rare sincere one that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. I would commit murder for that smile.  
  
Not that I would, in a thousand years, say it out loud. I don't have to.   
  
"Can we go to sleep now?" I ask plaintively.  
  
He yawns and stretches his arm across me. "Please."  
  
"Didn't even get any ass for my troubles," I grumble.  
  
"There's always the morning, Weasley."  
  
Yes. There is always the morning.  
  
~~~~~~~~ 


End file.
